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West Indies, and he may be relied
on to ginger up the goods from his
own experiences."
Then on the editorial page:
"Dear Mr. Editor, do, do print a
photograph of Harold Trefusis. I am
wild about him, as are a dozen girls
I know. I picture him with dark hair,
rather long, flashing blue eyes, a
half-cynical, half-tender smile. Am
I right or wrong? Madge Thompson,
886 East Girst street, New York
City."
And somehow, absurd as they
were, those contributors' letters al
ways made little Miss Mayo mad
with jealousy.
She had finished the first instal
ment of "The Maid of Lonely Key,"
and it was eleven o'clock. Miss Mayo
sat in her arm-chair, a pathetic little
figure, dreaming of the "world that
was never to be hers. The years of
loneliness drew in on her, behind and
before. Surely a little slice of life
might have been granted her! Harry
Leeson had been but an episode, an
affair of a few short weeks which lay
in that dim region of 'the past to
which dreams go.
"I want to five!" said little Miss
Mayo passionately. "I want to do
something worth while; I want to
taste life as others do."
And a thought so daring, so shock
ing, came into her mind, that she be
gan to tremble.
She crouched in her chair for half
an hour before she made up her
mind. Then, calm and self-possessed,
she walked over to her desk and
wrote a letter to the editor of
"Youth."
Poor Miss Mayo! That was the
editor's thought when he received it
For this was not the ordinary school
girl's letter. It was the outpouring
of a heart that had never known
companionship. Those few short,
pithy sentences would have done
credit to a Balzac or a Turgenieff, a
"backer? v"" '
did she paint herself, her longings,
her poor aspirations. And all that
Tshe asked was that Mr. Trefusis
would write her a letter, to her ad-
dress (which she gave the editor inn
solemn confidence) and tell her
something of his life. And would he
send her a photograph? She would
treasure both, and he would neve
know how much she would thankd
him. , d
And then this was the most des-n
perately wicked thing of all in orders
that he might not misunderstand,
she signed her letter "Mrs. Harry.
Leeson."
That, of course, would prove to
Mr. Trefusis that she was no school
girl, but a woman with whom there
could be no possibility of personal
relationship, she being the wife of
another.
"Well, I'm blow.ed!" exclaimed the
editor.
Being a good editor, h!s first im
pulse was to print the letter. Then,
being also a gentleman, he changed
his mind. Then he wjote a short
note to the author, as follows:
"Our readers are still writing us by
the bushel about you. You sure have
made a hit TOith the girls. Keep up
the stuff and you can't drown us.
We'll be able to take a couple more
serials from you this summer, and
try to turn them out during the next
month if possible, so that we can put
our artist on the job. By the way,
Mrs. Harry Leeson has written us a
letter asking to meet you in an
epistolary way. Queer sort of note
to send you, of all people. However
we're not parting with it, because
she doesn't want you to know hec
address, but this is the gist of it.
So if you feel inclined, send us a kind
word to hand out to the poor lady."
The letter went off at five in the
afternoon. At nine the next morn
ing: Mr. Harold Trefusis was waiting!
outside Mr. Bernard's office for hintt
or the stenographer or somebody, no
matter whom, to come along and let;
him in. It happened to be the editorl
himself, who had come down early to
finish up some work. a
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